Remembering
by Liebling
Summary: ‘That night, she fell asleep in his arms. And that night, things were still as wrong as they had ever been, but that night, things were simpler.’ Nostalgic ((DM&GW))


~*~  
  
One day, the times were better. One day, it was not tough to earn money. One day, the world was happy and full of life. One day, everyone yelled and screamed, laughed and cried, and they actually meant it. One day, they were in love.  
  
But 'one day' has since now passed and they are both left with a mere memory of it. For the world spins on its unforgiving axis and the seasons change with the tides, and everything that once mattered is now forgotten. Forgotten and dead in the dark ground. It was just all so '-simple-' then, and nothing was complex. Ever.  
  
People were simple, they said what they wanted and they cried when they felt like it. They ate when they were hungry and they slept when they were tired. They did not bother with frivolous things like new-modeled brooms, or silly hairpins. For it was simple then.  
  
And they were simple as well.  
  
~*~  
  
He sashayed into Flourish and Blotts and she hated him. She 'simply' did. And there were no questions, no ifs ands or buts. She simply hated him, from the tip of his sugary frosting colored hair to the bottom of his fancy black boots. He acted as though he owned the shop, granted (she mused), he had enough money to own it if he pleased.  
  
And he was, obnoxious. So obnoxious, and he made fun of her brother. *Her* brother. Which further made her mad, for no one messed with him, even if he was a twit of a brother. It was the point of the matter. It was always the point of the matter back then. And he made fun of that cute boy with the lightening bolt scar, and he didn't deserve all that. He didn't want all of that money or fame or fortune. He didn't ask for it. It wasn't fair.  
  
But hate is far more complex than love.  
  
Recognizably, her family name was terrible and wretched. It disgusted him. He looked down upon it with disdain. The black-haired boy deserved all he could throw at him, for he was friends with the redhead and the mudblood. The mudblood had knotty, chocolate colored hair. And he hated that. He hated things that were impure and sodden like that. And the redhead was poor; it was all just such a pity. Although, coincidentally he had no pity for them. However, he did have pity for those who had to look at the lot of them.  
  
And so it started.  
  
Somehow, however, 'hate' got confused with 'love' along the way, and somehow even though she hated him and he hated her something started.  
  
But 'something' was not necessarily good.  
  
~*~  
  
She was young then, but in theory they were all young then. Their cheeks were always brick red, and they'd jauntily skip about, and they held on to their sweet ideals like a wildcat holding on to its prey. For ideas were priceless and timeless, and everything was back then.  
  
And then everything changed.  
  
~*~  
  
After Harry Potter's life became endangered (not like it wasn't endangered before) everything changed. Everyone was cynical and cold, even bitter at times. Their cheeks turned to a blanched shade, and they no longer skipped, they merely walked. With their heads down and their shoulders slumped.  
  
For the Dark Side was rising up again, and they feared for their lives, they always did. This feeling was odd to them, even forced, so unnatural, so bizarre.  
  
"I don't understand, Daddy-," she told her Father one day, "-why can't I go outside and play?"  
  
They never bothered explaining it; she wouldn't have understood it anyway.  
  
The young were confused; they understood "good" but they had no comprehension of evil. For before, evil didn't exist. And if it did, they were ignorant to it.  
  
And their morals faltered. Their ignorance was silenced.  
  
And she couldn't remember a worse time.  
  
And then, there was beauty amongst the cynicisms.  
  
She found him.  
  
However, she wouldn't have told if it hadn't been the fact that she was so scared.  
  
But she was scared, and so she told him.  
  
~*~  
  
She was crying that day, as she rushed through the dark corridor. Alone. The tears stung her cashew colored eyes and it felt as though acid was dripping from them.  
  
She collapsed against the dark green colored wall and hugged her knees. The tears were just coming, and she forgot how much it hurt to cry.  
  
A tall figure came from the Slytherin commons and made its way over to the small girl huddled in a ball.  
  
He looked down on her, his eyes inspecting her.  
  
"Right! Right! Just stare at me like I'm some sort of crazy old lady who needs to be sent to 'Mungos-"  
  
"Saint Mungos," he corrected.  
  
"Yeah yeah. Technicalities," she cried.  
  
"What are you doing here for?" He asked, and although his voice was cold, she didn't care.  
  
So tactless.  
  
"What does it look like I'm doing here? Honestly. I'm crying my bloody eyes out and I'm sitting near the Slytherin commons, and I'm not so sure why, I just remember bolting out of the Great Hall, and well-" it wasn't even awkward "-here I am. Or rather, here we are."  
  
"Uh-" for once he was speechless. His thin lips smirked ever so slightly, and she picked up on it.  
  
"Oh yes, and now you're say 'uh' at me like I'm so stupid, and I'm rambling and tears are just pouring and why does it have to be this way? Why can't Harry be okay? And why can't You-Know-Who just go away? And why is it always like this?" She asked, her voice shaking.  
  
"It wasn't always like this," he said coldly, "things used to be better."  
  
"Right. I know, I know. But whatever, I'm fine; just leave me here to die, okay? I'll be fine, make sure I get a nice casket though, and then you're free to jump on it as you please." She said this and didn't bother to hide the bitterness, she knew she was being overly dramatic and she didn't even care.  
  
"I'll go then, and make sure to wipe up the tears you're spilling all over the portrait of the Bloody Barron, okay? Because we wouldn't want it dirtied by mudblood lovers or anything," he said as he turned to go back into the common room.  
  
"Wait!" She cried to his back, "Wait!"  
  
Slightly he pivoted and threw her a glance worthy of his Father's, "Yes?"  
  
"I w-w-ant to talk to you."  
  
"Oh do you?" He asked, quite obviously amused.  
  
"Yes," she said, "and I ain't going to beg so get your bum over here! I need answers and somehow, I can't tell anyone I know, because they'll just think I'm stupid, not like you won't, but you don't matter. Because I hate you, so get over here."  
  
"Oh, giving orders now are we?" He asked but nonetheless he sat down next to her on the wall. "Do tell, we need some excitement over here," he said motioning to the Slytherin common room.  
  
"Right," she said as the tears continued to jet out of her eyes, "anyway, tell me, remind me, what life used to be like before Voldemort gained so much power that the good side was practically crushed and everyone with any sort of meaning just died. Tell me. Remind me. Tell me how it was before the war."  
  
He put a finger to his chin in a thoughtful manner. "This isn't story time, Weasley."  
  
"Just tell me," she pleaded, "remind me."  
  
"Fine," he said a bit reluctant, "But nothing was perfect then, it was better, considerably, but it wasn't perfect."  
  
"I know!" She said obviously getting madder "But it was better! Close your eyes and remember."  
  
He half listened to her commands as he began to talk but he didn't feel like covering his eyes that would just be-stupid.  
  
"It was better then," he began, "I remember when everyone would just go near the entry steps and drink butterbeer, everyone would get royally drunk and proceed to snog anyone in sight. But it didn't matter; no one took anything seriously back then. You used to always wear your hair in those plaits with the emerald green bows, I remember, and your cheeks were always brick red. Your pale now, you know, you've gone to ruins. And your brother, although stupid, was also breathing and no one much worried about him, or even nasty Potter, who although stupid, was also still breathing and not being worried about 24/7." He finished, almost nostalgically, although he too was remembering a better time.  
  
"My brother is not stupid," she muttered indignantly.  
  
"He didn't even know that Snape's first name was 'Severus'," the boy reasoned as he chuckled slightly to himself, obviously taken out of his reverie.  
  
The tears were still coming and they stained her crisp, white, blouse.  
  
And then, he did what always soothed his Mummy. He put an arm around her and held her tightly and muttered sweet nothings in her ear. And she cried into his chest, the tears simply flowing.  
  
And it didn't matter just then that he hated her. Or that she hated him.  
  
It didn't matter that she was a lowly Weasley or that he was an aristocrat of a Malfoy.  
  
"Shhhh," he said quietly, "it's okay."  
  
No more did she talk, she was lost for words, words couldn't even do her thoughts justice.  
  
He didn't talk anymore either, he just held her, and she was shaking terribly like a child who had just had a nightmare.  
  
For a second, she looked so helpless. So vulnerable. So scarred.  
  
And for a second, he thought, that just maybe she was okay.  
  
Just okay.  
  
Just for a second.  
  
"Tell me," she said again, her voice hoarse from the sobbing, "a story about a Princess."  
  
He looked down at her angel face and he nodded his consent. "One day the times were better. One day, no one worried about nonexistent evil. And one day there was a Princess with fiery red hair, cashew colored eyes, and a crown made of yellow daisies ..."  
  
That night, she fell asleep in his arms. And that night, things were still as wrong as they had ever been, but that night, things were simpler.  
  
~*~  
  
La Fin. 


End file.
